


That's Amore

by dark_roast



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-31
Updated: 2005-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_roast/pseuds/dark_roast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rated R for language.<br/>SPOILERS for all of Season One, AU.</p><p>A short fic about Logan taking the stand as a character witness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's Amore

_"Things I Have Learned from Watching Movies"  
A Composition by Logan Echolls_

_1\. A liger is pretty much my favorite animal. It's like a lion and a tiger mixed; bred for its skills in magic._   
_2\. You had me at "Hello."_   
_3\. A day in the Marine Corps is like a day on the farm. Every meal's a banquet; every paycheck a fortune  
every formation a parade -- I love the corps._   
_4\. I have something to say: it's better burn out, than to fade away._   
_5\. Do you know the Klingon proverb that tells us revenge is a dish that is best served cold? It is very cold  
in space._   
_6\. Aaron Echolls is a deeply shitty actor._   



Logan flopped back in the chair, frowning up at the acoustical-tile ceiling. At the corner of one tile was a brown water stain that looked sort of like a dog's head. There was a floppy ear. There was the darker smear of a nose. Holding his pencil point-up, he threw it at the ceiling. The pencil struck the metal frame between two tiles; Logan threw up his arms to shield his head as the pencil rebounded and smacked him on the arm.

The pencil had rolled all the way across the carpet to the corner of the therapist's desk. He had to slide way down in the chair in order to extend his leg far enough to snag it with one foot, but at last, after some heroic contortions, he succeeded. That was a good thing, because he really didn't feel up to the effort of getting out of the chair.

He decided to try it again. There was some hidden trick, like skipping stones or throwing shuriken. There had to be. Maybe it was all in the wrist. Maybe there was a reason that phrase was a cliché. He was supposed to be writing about his feelings. About Lilly's murder, about his father, about everything in his head; the therapist encouraged him to talk about whatever he wanted to talk about. When Logan wouldn't talk, Dr. Patterson left the room, saying it might be easier for him to write about it. Talking, writing, semaphore, smoke signals -- whatever. These things inside of him could not come out. These boiling horrors. He could not let them out. Could not write them through, could not talk them through.

_Do they list exorcists in the phone book? _he wondered.

He raised the pencil, held it out. "The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you!"

Veronica would probably know about exorcists. Fuck Veronica. He hadn't even gotten his hand under her shirt, but fuck her anyway.

"Veronica Mars sucks cocks in Hell," he growled, dropping his voice demonically.

Bitch. Goddamned, fucking bitch.

_Don't go there, man. Just don't. You think you can contain it, as if this thing between you and her somehow stands apart from the other things, but flip the cover match scratch sharp smell of whoops too late, the hydrogen combusts and the magnificent airship _Smirking Jackass _explodes in flames and swandives onto a New Jersey airstrip while a reporter screams oh the humanity._

Besides, he didn't want to talk about it anyway. Nothing more snoozeworthy than whining. He bored the shit out of himself most of the time.

_You should have jumped off the Coronado Bridge when you had the chance, asshole._

Having come to that moment and not stepped up -- or rather, off-- Logan knew such a moment would not come around a second time. He tried again, not giving himself time to think it out, letting his arm hang and whipping the pencil up at the ceiling with his wrist. It stuck, quivering, just left of the dog's ear. "Yes!"

The door opened and Dr. Patterson came in, looking a little nonplussed to see Logan with his hands folded on the table, smiling politely.

"Do you need more time, Logan?"

"No, ma'am."

The therapist took the sheet of paper and studied it, her brows lowering.

"I'd rather you didn't read it while I'm here," Logan added. "I'm kinda embarrassed by these highly personal --"

"Logan," she cut him off curtly, "I am trying to help you."

He didn't reply immediately. Nothing snarky sprang to mind. Dr. Patterson was a square, stolid woman with thick black glasses and the look of somebody who dealt with Logan's brand of disaffected-teen bullshit every single day. Maybe at first she'd been all starry eyed, dreaming of glorious psychological breakthroughs, and tearful clients clinging to her hand and babbling thank you thank you thank you. Eventually, the younger and crueler had broken her down and given her this look, both hard and hangdog.

"I know," he said.

Dr. Patterson laid her hand over his. "You need to meet me halfway."

"I can't." He scuffed one hand through his hair, adding, "Your pencil's up there. Sorry."

***

_"LOGAN!"_

He jumped and turned to scowl at her. "Jesus Christ, Trina! What the fuck?" Trina didn't say anything. Logan held the fridge door open with the cold air pouring out, pimpling his bare chest and arms with gooseflesh. She didn't answer; she just stared, looking faintly horrified or nauseated. Logan said, "Pizza bites, bottle of water, leftover green bean casserole -- _what, _Trina?"

"Are you ignoring me?" she asked.

"Obviously I'm not fucking ignoring you. Didn't I just ask you what you wanted?"

"Is this some kind of payback for -- for --"

"No, Trina." Logan grabbed a Coke and shut the fridge.

He started to walk past her, but Trina caught him by the arm. "Logan, I've been calling your name for ten minutes."

"Try spitting out the ball gag next time."

"I've been standing right here next to you. I did that --" She waved one hand in front of his face; he slapped it away. "-- and then I pinched you on the arm. What are you on?"

"What?"

"What. Drugs. Are. You. Taking." Trina repeated slowly.

He glared at her. "I thought you appropriated Mom's secret stash, the same time you stole her credit card."

Trina grabbed Logan's arm and held it up so he could see the red welt rising on the inside of his elbow where she'd pinched him. Hard. Two thin crescents stood out in darker red: the marks of her fingernails. He was Wile E. Coyote running off the edge of a cliff. The instant he noticed the injury was the instant it started to sting. His brain had taken him away, much like Calgon was supposed to.

"Like Duncan Kane," Trina whispered.

Logan grunted. Pretty doubtful that both he and D.K. had Type Four Epilepsy, even if Celeste Kane had been...

_For those of you playing at home, the category is: "People Who Were Fucking Aaron Echolls," for five hundred dollars._

But, he wouldn't play. More likely his blackout had resulted from his whirlwind romance with Cuervo. Or it was simple, merciful catatonia; a mental Band-Aid.

***

Aaron Echolls was deemed well enough to stand trial by the middle of July. So began a media circus to put Mr. Barnum and Mr. Bailey both to shame. Three rings and a freak show and all the cotton candy you can eat -- good golly, let's go. Neptune had never seen such excitement. Logan put on a suit and tie every morning like he was going to the office, except he was pretty sure he wouldn't get fired from this job for showing up drunk.

_"Logan Echolls, 17, sits in the courtroom, wrapped in a profound silence of grief and shock."_

Well, that's what the papers were probably saying about him. Mostly he was bored, waiting for his moment to speak, like waiting his turn to give an oral composition in French, and then it would be over. All the things -- _What did you call them, Logan? "These boiling horrors_.**" **_Man,_ _you ought to take up writing. A lot of famous writers have been drunks. _\-- all of them were smoothed over and sanitized into motions and pleadings and cross-examinations, and Logan absorbed none of the voices buzzing around him. It was like Latin in a Catholic mass. Finally, it was his turn. He'd been coached, so he knew what he was supposed to say. Afterward, he would go home, eat Doritos, kill a six-pack, and play Halo. They wouldn't need him to show up here again. The rest of summer vacation was free for him to spend it inside a bottle.

"Please place your right hand on the Bible. Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth; whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

"Sure."

"Please state your name for the record."

"Logan James Echolls."

"State for the court your relationship to the accused."

"I'm the son."

"Aaron Echolls is your father?"

"Yes."

From the corner of his eye, he could see the stenographer going click-click-click on her little machine. Jake Kane's attorney leaned on the rail in front of the witness box, confidentially, as if he and Logan were chums.

"Now, Logan... you've heard the prosecution's case against your father. Do you believe he killed Lilly Kane?"

"Objection!" shouted the defense attorney. "There has been only circumstantial evidence put forth to connect my client to Lilly Kane's murder. Logan Echolls is testifying as a character witness."

"Sustained," said the judge, glaring at the prosecutor. "Counsel, you will rephrase the question."

"Of course. My apologies, Your Honor. Logan... taking into account your father's _character_, do you believe him capable of committing Lilly Kane's murder?"

Logan hesitated, and then glanced across the courtroom at his father. Aaron Echolls looked gray and thin; his cheeks and the bridge of his nose still bore red scars and fading bruises. The handsome movie star had turned old, worn out, used up. He met Logan's gaze and smiled hopefully.

"Yes," said Logan. "My father is capable of murder."

The prosecutor opened a manila file folder. "Aaron Echolls had a history of violence. This court has already heard the testimony of Mr. Dylan Goran, whom your father beat so badly, Mr. Goran was hospitalized for three weeks --"

"He was protecting Trina."

"Excuse me?"

"Protecting her. Dylan beat her. My father's always protected us."

"But Logan -- Aaron Echolls abused you for years, isn't that correct?"

Logan nodded.

"Please answer the question verbally," the judge said gently.

"My father beat the shit out of me on a regular basis," Logan replied savagely, staring at his hands, clenched around the rail of the witness box. "There's a pithy newspaper quote for you." He raised his head, his eyes narrowed. "And here's another one. Aaron Echolls didn't kill Lilly Kane. I did."

***

The cops took away Logan's tie and his belt and his shoelaces, and tossed him in a holding cell. He knew he wouldn't have to wait long -- and he didn't. Within half an hour, Veronica showed; all steamed up like a little blonde teapot. She grabbed the bars of the holding cell like she wished they were his throat. He grinned. "Well, well. If it isn't my arch-nemesis. How's dear Donut holding up?" "You fuck," she hissed. "You psychopathic fuck!"

"I hear you and Duncan have gotten pretty cozy over the summer. It's all back the way it should be, huh? Almost. Eighty percent's not too bad."

"Everything you said to me was a lie." Her eyes glittered like chips of glass. She wasn't crying. Not yet. "You played me."

"I played you like a Mozart sonata, Veronica Mars."

"God..." She let go of the bars and covered her face with her hands. "I was right not to trust you. I was right all along."

"Don't you know? You're always right, Veronica. Right about me, right about my father. Right about everything." He leaned one arm against the bars that separated them. "I beat my dad to the Kane house by about five minutes. Saw Lilly's car parked in the driveway and half over the flowerbed, like she'd been driving drunk off her ass, and the front door of the house standing wide open. I went in to find her. I wanted to break up with her. She'd been fucking Weevil -- and probably every other guy at Neptune High -- behind my back."

Veronica looked up furiously, her face wet with tears; Logan felt a stab of pure, cold delight, seeing her like that. But, he wasn't finished with her.

"Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you?" she snarled.

"No. I don't want your pity. Everybody wants to give poor, widdle Wogan Echows their goddamned pity. I wanted to set Lilly free. A clean break. Just end it. I didn't even know about my father. Not until Lilly told me. Straight up, just like that." He tossed his head and made his voice slightly higher. " 'You finally sacked up enough to dump me, Logan? Congratulations. Here's a news-flash: I've been fucking your dad.' " Logan threw up his hands. "Hell, yeah! That's what a guy loves to hear when he shows up with his heart on his sleeve to do the noble thing and cut his whore girlfriend loose."

"So you killed her."

"Fuck yes, I killed her. My dad comes storming out onto the patio about thirty seconds later, like it's one of his movies, all: 'Give me the tapes, Lilly!' 'Cept, it wasn't the movies. He was too late, and she was dead, and the tapes? Gone. Until you found them, Intrepid Girl Detective. But my dad, child-abusing drunk bastard that he is, always looks out for his own. He helped me cover up. Just like the Kanes covered up for Duncan. All this family solidarity brings a salty tear to my eye, it really does."

"And all that talk about the two of us," she said in a choked voice, "about moving on..."

"You started it, Veronica. _You _kissed _me_. I just wanted to get into your pants." Logan lifted his fingers to his lips, and blew her a kiss. She looked like she wanted to throw up. He went on, "I'm seventeen; still a minor. I'll be out in a couple years. Maybe we can get together, just the two of us. Lay out by the pool..."

Veronica turned and ran. Logan closed his eyes for a second, savoring the echoes of her footsteps and the crash of the big metal door closing behind her. _Burn, baby, burn._

***

Of course, it wasn't two years until they let him out. It was two hours. Dr. Patterson threw her briefcase on the table in the interrogation room. He'd never seen his therapist look so angry. Except for the time he'd spiked her pencil into the acoustical ceiling. And even then, she'd whipped her caring-professional mask back in place almost immediately.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" she demanded.

"It's Hammer Time?"

"Do you think this is _funny_, Logan?"

"Hilarious."

"How long did you think you'd be able to get away with it?"

Logan lifted one hand, then let it fall back on the table with a thump. " I don't know. A few hours. Maybe a day. As long as it took my father to crack."

"Well, he did. Aaron Echolls confessed to Lilly Kane's murder an hour ago. I'm sure you think that’s funny, too."

"A laugh riot." Logan paused, then added, "You know, my dad always had this big idea of protecting the Echolls clan. He's been beating me since I was five, but that was all in the family. Now he's going to death row to save me, 'cause he's so fucking noble." Logan picked up Dr. Patterson's fountain pen and rolled it between his fingertips. "He would've walked away from the Lilly Kane murder charge like O.J., if I hadn't confessed."

"If you hadn't perjured yourself, you mean," Dr. Patterson said sternly.

"Yeah," Logan replied with a slight, mocking smile. "That's what I meant."

***


End file.
